


Performance

by withswords



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clubbing, Coitus Interruptus, Exhibitionism, Hook-Up, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Public Blow Jobs, god what am i even doing, this is such a thorough mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withswords/pseuds/withswords
Summary: Fandango told himself he would consider it and move along, and then he told himself that, still, there was no harm in looking, was there?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Something ridiculously self-indulgent that I wrote after talking to Duckay about the startling lack of exhibitionism content for this ship. I mean, come on.
> 
> (God I'm almost embarrassed to post this)

Apparently, the guy had a reputation. When Fandango’s eyes had gravitated to him, he had been informed by the friend that brought him that he- and here she referred to him mockingly as ‘His Highness’- wasn’t worth wasting time on. He danced; but he didn’t dance  _ with _ anyone. He showed up all the time; but he didn’t go home  _ with _ anyone. Et cetera. An infamous sinkhole.

Most people respected an unspoken rule not to get too close to him, which was lucky for Fandango, because from his perspective on the balcony it created a sort of foot-wide clearing in the crowd through which to see him. For such a pretty person, he noticed after some looking, he had no rhythm. He might as well have been dancing to his own playlist, separate from everyone else. It was so strange it might have been intentional.

His Highness had a soft jawline and a pretty mouth. From the glimpses he got, his body was more than acceptable. His nose could be improved upon. Fandango told himself he would consider it and move along, and then he told himself that, still, there was no harm in looking, was there?

He wasn’t one to go clubbing. The only purpose was to pick up a bit of fun for the night, and if you were good, you could do that anywhere. Coming into it, he hadn’t thought that it would be a boys’ night, assumed that he would charm some girl and give Rosa her pick of the men. The more Fandango watched him, though, tossing that neat blonde head of his, the more sure he was that the old plan was moot.

A 5-at-best, tall with cropped red hair, approached His Highness from behind, sidled up close and put a hand on his hip. Like a snake lashing, he whipped around and snatched the guy’s hand by the wrist. Fandango couldn’t tell what he was saying, but he twisted the 5’s arm hard enough to bring him to the ground, and let go quickly with visible distaste. A couple of the dancers around them were looking, either completely still or halfheartedly gyrating as they tried to get a fix on what was happening. 

Face relaxing from the snarl it had twisted into, he smoothed out his shirt and walked away. The people who had seen the altercation moved out of his way, causing a ripple effect in the crowd as they parted around him. His Highness was headed towards the bar. From the way he carried himself, this was nothing out of the ordinary. No wonder people gave him space.

Fandango felt his pulse thrumming a little too fast.

“I’m going for it,” he muttered into Rosa’s ear, before pushing off from the railing. He heard her trying to tell him something, but the noise drowned her out. As though he needed any warnings, advice.

Moving down the stairs to the bar below, he focused on the feeling of his body, knowing the muscles of his own legs, back, arms, were elegant machines. He was irresistible.

His Highness stood posed and disinterested, leaning on his elbows while he waited. He was checking his phone, scrolling through a line of notifications. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a matching rose gold cuff bracelet on each wrist. Fandango insinuated himself near him, edging another man out of the way. Blonde fringe had escaped His Highness’ ponytail and hung artfully around his face. Lights above and below the bar cast a neon blue glow over him, taking him from royal to ethereal.

“Can I buy you something, gorgeous?” he asked, not quite breaching the safe zone around him, but lingering in his periphery.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reached his empty hand up and tugged on the collar of his shirt, showing a bit of collarbone without stretching the garment out.

“Do you think you could buy this shirt off the rack at a Target, or a Sears?”

Fandango looked at his shirt, a nice burgundy v-neck sweater, at the little black swatch of fabric on the bottom that said ‘Burberry,’ and said, “Probably not.”

“Why is that?”

“‘Cause the shirt costs 400 dollars.”

“Oh, close. I’m guessing you know your brands better than most of these animals.” He let the collar go, and even then, the way it drooped still revealed a hint of his pretty, tanned collarbones. He put his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. His jeans were paisley-pattern; his wallet was lined with fur. “So tell me, why does a man in a 400 dollar shirt need you to buy his drink?”

The bartender slid him a garish pink margarita, and he slapped a $50 onto the counter, took his drink, and walked away. Fandango watched him go, helpless to the smile unfolding on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been shut down like that, and while it occurred to him to be miffed- wow.

Following not two steps behind, Fandango belatedly answered, raising his voice to be heard over the music, “So he has an excuse to be told what a stunner he is.”

He turned on his heel and looked at Fandango, eyebrows rising, incredulous, like he couldn’t believe someone had the audacity not to roll over after a couple of words. He paused. His eyes catalogued Fandango in the least subtle once-over he’d ever gotten, and he relaxed. The stony set to his lips turned into a smirk. Fandango took that as an invitation to step closer.

“I don’t need an excuse to hear a compliment. This,” he ran a finger from his eyebrow down to his chin, “is my job.”

“You’re good at it. Very good.”

Where they stood now, they were halfway between the blue lights of the bar and the unnatural, too-bright alternating pinks and greens from the dance floor. It turned His Highness into a mardi gras spectacle. Traffic flowed around them naturally, an island in the middle of the noise. He took a sip of his absurdly colored drink, and Fandango found his eyes immediately drawn to the movement of his throat.

“What are you hoping to get out of this? You’re good-looking, obviously, but I’m sure someone’s told you the rules. Don’t touch the displays.”

Fandango stepped closer again, to see if he could get away with it, and because His Highness’ voice was so naturally soft and low that his words threatened to be whisked away by the ambience. “I’d settle for your number.”

“I don’t have a phone,” he said with such a practiced conviction that Fandango almost believed him. (Sip. Swallow.)

“A dance. I know you have to maintain an appearance, but one dance wouldn’t hurt.” Fandango slipped his hands into the front pockets of his pants and shrugged, knowing he looked endearing. “I’ll set the standard for who gets to get close to you.”

His Highness gave him a full sweep with the eyes again and laughed. “Standard? Next thing you know every man with visible abs is going to think he deserves his one song.”

“It’s not about what I deserve, it’s what you want… Your Highness.” He raised his brows at that, almost laughed again, and Fandango knew he’d won. “I mean, look around. How many 10’s walk into a place like this on a Friday night… and yet you haven’t taken your eyes off me.”

Petulantly, he jerked his head and looked down at his own shoes. (A big sip this time. Swallow.) “We’re having a conversation. Of course I’d look at you.”

“How often do you let yourself have a conversation?”

“What do you want?” His tone had turned suddenly shrewd, and Fandango shrugged.

“I want to see you dance, up close.” It wasn’t quite what he meant to say, but it was true.

His Highness took his time with that one, gauging him, squinting, and when he pinched his face like that, a shadow of a wrinkle appeared around his nose, which was somehow completely charming. He took another large sip, and his margarita glass was now mostly slushy ice.

“There have been a lot of ugly people coming here recently,” His Highness informed him, in a tone of voice as though they had been talking about this all along. “I thought about moving on, if the scene stayed that way.”

“See, it's not like you have anything to lose. If you're not feeling me, I'll leave you alone.” When he looked not entirely convinced, Fandango added, “Or are you afraid you might enjoy yourself?”

He knew he was being baited, surely he wasn't dumb enough not to know, but he still jerked his chin out defiantly. “One song. Hands above the belt.”

Fandango didn’t see what he did with his glass, disappearing it from his hand as he led them to the floor. Their hands didn’t grasp, nothing so visibly eager. The tips of their fingers stayed brushing at one another’s wrists, His Highness guiding and Fandango promising that he was raptly attentive. He never had to look over his shoulder to check.

The crowd moved to accommodate them. The pulsing lights- green below, pink and stark white alternating overhead- created a hypnotizing strobe effect, the illusion of moving in slow motion, like a good and steady high. When His Highness found a place he liked on the floor, he lifted his arms above his head and stretched. Fandango wanted to press himself into the arch of his back, mold himself against the perfect shapes of him. His neck curved as his head tilted to one side.

The way he danced made it clear that he had no idea what dancing looked like outside of how clubs looked on television. It should have been tacky. And the same went for his bracelets, catching the dance lights like tiny disco balls unto themselves, and his margaritas, and his $400 shirt that looked like any other shirt from any department store and had no right to cost what it did, and his threaded and powdered eyebrows and his soul patch and his tight, paisley-printed jeans.

He turned with his hands clasped behind his neck, frowning, and said, “Come dance, idiot.” And from this angle, tacky suddenly looked like being ten steps ahead of the game.

All the music sounded the same to him, and the bass more often than not drowned out the melody. He couldn’t tell if one song segued into another, because the beat thumping through the floor and up through his body never seemed to change. He left it up to His Highness to decide when his song was up.

A polite couple of inches separated them, front to back. Keeping to his limits, Fandango tried not to let his hands roam. It wasn’t really dancing, and now and then he would catch himself feeling stupid for letting himself move like this, over some guy. They were close enough that he could smell his cologne. He breathed deeply and took a backseat to his own mind- let the experience think for him, for now.

His Highness turned around, and his ponytail whipped across Fandango’s chin. His eyes were clear enough to see yourself in. Hands pressed at the base of Fandango’s back, then down to cup his ass. They moved in unison, hips swaying, and Fandango wasn’t sure if he was leading, or following.

“I thought you said hands high,” he reminded, having to shout over the music.

“That was just for one song.”

Fandango took a grip on his hips, feeling the bones of them through the denim. Satisfied that he had gotten the message, His Highness lifted his arms and moved them in rhythm, like he could make what was essentially grinding somehow elegant. His eyes shut, falling into the trance of the music; Fandango’s remained open, losing time in the minute expressions of his face.

There was perspiration on his neck and on his forehead. Fandango, who had barely broken out into a sweat himself, wondered if His Highness thought that sweater was worth it now. 

He opened his eyes. His pupils were wide enough that Fandango wondered for a second if he had taken something. The light shifted, and they shrank again, but his quiet little smile stretched out into a grin.

He leaned in, and for a moment Fandango thought he was going to kiss him, but his trajectory changed at the last moment and his chin bumped against Fandango’s cheek. Barely raising his voice, he said, “I need another drink.”

He jerked his head towards the other end of the floor. Round booth tables had been installed into alcoves in the wall, at the base of the balcony. They were mostly all occupied with groups of girls drinking, but there was one, tucked just beside the staircase, empty clear blue plastic. He jerked his head again, more emphatically, and led him away with his hand at the small of Fandango’s back.

In the alcoves, even on the edge of the floor, the music was muffled and reduced to the bassline. They were round little echo chambers, in which their heavy breathing was clearly audible. He lounged, feet up on the bench and his posture warm and relaxed.

“That wasn’t bad,” he admitted, eyes flicking across Fandango’s face. “You’ve got gorgeous hips.”

Fandango mimicked his pose. “Thanks. Can I know your name?”

“I don’t kiss and tell. You first, and if I like yours, I’ll decide.”

“Fandango.”

“What?”

“That’s my name. Fandango.”

He rest his chin on his hand and carefully said, “Just the one name, like Bono?”

Grinning, he shook his head. “I only really use my last name, but it’s my real one.”

His Highness tried his name out, curious, and his pronunciation was artless, not to mention wrong, short vowels where they should be long. With barely a thought, Fandango told him that, yeah, that was close enough. He must have known he’d mangled it, but he still smiled, pleased with himself, like getting away with it was an accomplishment on its own.

He fished another large bill out of his wallet and waved it, insisting, “Get something for the both of us. He knows my drink; tell him you’re ordering for visiting royalty, and not to skimp on the tequila this time.”

Ordering went smoothly enough- he must either have come to this club very often, or made a very big impression on the bartender. He got himself an identical drink, and watched the bartender pull Cointreau and pear syrup. With two glasses in his hand, he nearly bumped into Rosa, cutting in front of him.

She had clearly been about to tell him something, but looked at the drinks he carried and instead commented suggestively, “Looks like you're doing well.”

“Oh yeah. I think I'm about to score.”

“With--”

“Yeah, him.” Fandango side-stepped around her, even as she put a hand on his arm to keep him still. “He's so pretty up close, you wouldn't believe. But he's like, funny and intense, and if you're leaving I'll catch an Uber, ‘cause I absolutely cannot bail.”

She gave him her blessing in the form of a swat on the ass as he walked away.

His Highness was back on his phone when Fandango rounded the corner to their table, but he had the decency to put it down and leer up at him. Fandango passed him his drink, and their fingers brushed for one soft moment. Settling down in his place at the booth, Fandango swiped the sugar-and-salted rim of his cocktail with the tip of his finger and licked it clean.

“You decided to tell me yet?” he asked, cheeky.

Just as cheeky, he rejoined, “Oh, it was all I could think about while you were gone. But, yes, I think you’re worth at least that. Tyler Breeze.”

“Am I allowed to ask what you do, Tyler Breeze?”

“I’m a model. Runways, mostly. Look me up.”

Fandango picked the lime wedge out of his drink and took a sip. “I could have guessed that. You can always tell dancers and models by how they walk.”

Not entirely pleased with that response, Tyler continued, “In my spare time, I’m also a performance artist.”

“Performance art?” Fandango laughed, and Tyler tilted his chin up haughtily. “Man, not that you aren’t high-brow, but you just don’t seem like the type.”

“You know how some people are adrenaline junkies?” Tyler mused, playing with his straw. “The people who jump out of planes and stuff for fun?”

Fandango nodded. He’d never jumped out of a plane, though more for lack of opportunity than anything. “I’ll try anything once.”

Tyler’s lips quirked up and he angled himself slightly towards him- Fandango was starting to pick out those little changes in his body language. Tyler was less of an ice prince, and more of an open book. No wonder he didn’t let anyone talk to him longer than 30 seconds, if he couldn’t help but give himself away like this.

He pulled the straw out of his drink, put it into his mouth to lick the margarita off, and popped it back into the glass. “I’ll keep that in mind. But what you people have for cliff diving or whatever, I have for… being seen. Watching someone for a long time is the most intimate you can be without getting your hands dirty- that’s why people love celebrities.”

“Are you not into dirty?”

“Depends. I once had an installment where I sat naked for hours in a porcelain tub that I filled with instant lemon jello. I’ve never exfoliated so hard in my life as I did after that.”

“Why lemon? Favorite flavor?”

“Yellow food dye stains the least. You’re not going to ask ‘why jello?’”

“I already know why. Jello is clear enough to see yourself through.”

Tyler was smiling full-on now, preening and self-satisfied. “I told the loser who interviewed me afterwards that it was a statement on isolation and, uh, being emotionally static, or whatever. People will eat up anything if you call it art.”

Fandango leaned close, past the established barrier. If he wanted, he could count Tyler’s eyelashes. “If I called you a work of art, would you let me eat you too?”

There was a beautiful and brief moment where Tyler snorted a laugh, and then caught himself and covered his mouth, mortified. Fandango watched the way his face changed as he turned more reserved. The tension around his mouth and his brows. He put his hand down and took a drink, and he turned his face out towards the dancing throng. Fandango drank in his profile, knowing it was shallow to do in the face of whatever complicated emotion Tyler was having.

“We do things my way, if I permit you to do anything.”

“I didn’t expect it to happen any other way.”

“If someone needs to stop, the word of the night is…”

When Tyler paused to think, Fandango cut in with, “Jello.”

Tyler looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and visibly struggled not to smile. “Yeah, alright.”

Tyler’s rules, he warned, were subject to change when the mood struck him, but were otherwise never to be flouted. That meant no questions, no uppity nonsense, not even talking unless Tyler asked for it. Nothing but the hard line of ‘yes’ or ‘stop.’ Fandango nodded along, his eyes dropping constantly to the movement of Tyler’s lips. He looked like he was wearing balm, or gloss, something slightly wet and shiny.

Tyler told him, “Sit still,” and moved himself closer until their knees touched. “I’m getting acclimated,” he said.

In a fluid motion, Tyler straddled him, perching on Fandango’s thighs with his knees on either side. His hand- and Fandango felt suddenly that it was unfair, cosmically, that even his goddamn hands were beautiful- traced a feather-light serpentine pattern from his jawline to the base of his ribs. The flat of his palm ran over Fandango’s abdominals. “God, you’re toned. Hey-- look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Fandango’s eyes, which had been bobbing along the ceiling, registering nothing, locked onto Tyler’s face as though by magnets. Seconds later, he defeated the point by leaning in, breaking their gazes, to mouth at the corner of Fandango’s jaw. Down his neck. Tyler was liberal with his teeth, almost careless. He left stinging bites on his earlobe, and palmed Fandango’s dick through his pants.

“Have you ever fucked in public, Dango?” Tyler breathed over the shell of his ear. Fandango shivered, his back arching unconsciously.

“No.”

“But you’ll try anything once?”

He shivered again, clenching his fists. Tyler’s hair was right there, wrapped up in its neat little ponytail, and would be so easy, if he let himself, to reach up and yank. In the moment his head craned back, Fandango pictured, the curve of his pretty throat would reflect the pulsing club lights, like a technicolor fish. There would still be a light sweat there, from his exertions in the crowded, warm air.

He unclenched his hands. “Yeah.”

Tyler sank against him, and he barely suppressed a noise when he felt Tyler’s hard-on pressing into his stomach and his own up against the seat of Tyler’s pants. For his part, Tyler chuckled kind of awkwardly.

“What do you think?” His voice was cautious enough to be telling.

“Honestly?” Tyler nodded. “I think you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met, and if you asked I’d ride your dick in the middle of a crowded football stadium.”

Tyler laughed, perfectly self-assured again. “I’ll take that.”

Climbing off of him, Tyler nibbled on his ear and told him to get on the ground. Fandango slid himself to the floor, shuffling on his knees to get oriented. He ran his hands up Tyler’s thighs, and they spread for him, human warmth felt through the denim.

The tabletop overhead cast him in relative shadow, but otherwise did nothing to hide him. At a distance, he was visible to everyone who might happen to look hard enough. On his knees, Tyler’s legs framing his head. Fandango watched him undo his zipper, push down a hint of something lacy and red, and let his cock spring free. He was smooth, shaven or waxed or laser treated, however models did it, save for touches of unobtrusive, thin peach-blonde hair.

He couldn’t help but ask, “Is anyone watching?”

Tyler scanned the room. “They will be. You’d better put on a good show for them.”

He kissed the brightly flushed tip, his heart rate already picking up. He caught a shiver going down Tyler’s back. His eyes were still fixed on the crowd on the dancefloor. Of course, Tyler wanted it to be seen, wanted everything to be seen, but Fandango found himself wishing that he could be given one moment that night without an audience. Just the two of them.

Fandango ran his tongue across the underside. From above him, a noise of approval. Tyler was so warm, his taste heavy on the tongue. He wrapped his lips around the head of his dick. His cock ached, worse and worse the longer he ignored it. He had been ready to go to bat for the better part of the evening, and his body punished him for this injustice by the way the seam of his pants pressed into him.

Sucking in earnest, he bobbed his head and let his eyes unfocus, falling into the mindless rhythm of it. He shifted his weight from side to side, trying to be subtle, eager for even a pittance of friction. Tyler’s hand caught his face and stopped him, and he knew he had been caught.

“Do you want to touch yourself?”

Fandango blinked. Tyler ran his thumb over his cheekbone. “You can do it if you keep your eyes up here.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Taking only a second’s worth of attention off of Tyler, he freed his own erection, almost painful in the confines of his jeans. He stroked himself in time with the motion of his head, in time with the beat of the music as he felt it throbbing through the floor and up through him. The orderly set of his hair had devolved into messy natural waves from Tyler’s fingers raking through them. Dark curls framed his vision.

Their eyes met, blue on blue. At least, he thought they were blue. And he realized, in a lucid moment when his brain was not subsumed by blue and blonde and burgundy, that no matter how many people were watching them go at it, they were perfectly alone.

Tyler smiled to himself and bit his lip. “I’m thinking I should take a picture,” he mused, his voice a little tight, “but I don’t know if that would defeat the point or not.”

God, Fandango had no idea what he was talking about, but he loved the sound of his voice. In any other situation, he would have said so.

Pre-cum coated his palm and the length of his dick. His tongue swiped it away from Tyler’s tip, bitter and sort of unpleasant, but worth it, like strong, dry red wine. The heat and pressure inside of him passed some threshold, and he hovered at nearly-nearly-there.

Fandango groaned, scarcely even aware that he was making a sound. His head spun for a hundred different reasons. One of Tyler’s legs shifted, and for a moment it startled him, until he realized that all he was doing was stroking Fandango’s thigh with his foot. The hand not wrapped around his dick pressed hard against the bench until his knuckles turned white.

Tucking a lock of his own hair behind his ear- uselessly, as it fell back over his face not a second later- Tyler murmured, “Go on. Do it, you’ve been so good. You’re such a fucking sight.”

There was no way he could hold on much longer, even if he wanted to. He pumped his hand faster, imagining Tyler’s hair a wreck, his mouth messy with cum.

He shuddered. He came hard into his closed fist, climax leaving him breathing hard through his nose. His body rushed with chemicals, with shattering pleasure. His eyes had closed on their own in the midst of it, but in the aftershocks he managed to open them into lazy crescents. His breath didn’t come easy enough with his mouth full. The image of Tyler, blurry through his lashes as his body relaxed, filled his entire field of vision.

Tyler dropped a paper napkin for him. It fluttered onto the floor below. “As soon as I saw you, I knew you’d be dirty,” he teased, though it was hard to sound mean when he was so breathless.

Fandango pulled away, letting Tyler’s dick, slick with spit, rest against his cheek while he fumbled with the napkin to clean himself off. He took another few moments to catch his breath. He crumpled the soiled napkin and let it drop to the floor, buttoned up his fly. “It doesn’t usually happen like that.”

“Aw,” he cooed, without an ounce of sympathy. “Did I tease you too much?”

Fandango opened his mouth to answer, but broke off into a hiss when Tyler’s hand grabbed a fistful of hair, pulled too tightly. He got the message. This time, Tyler decided to keep control of the pace, leading Fandango slowly by the back of his head. He rocked his hips, but restrained himself, so that the crown of his dick teased Fandango’s throat. 

His head fell back. A needy sound, the sound of his composure cracking, burred in his throat. He jerked his hips harder, forcing Fandango to swallow around him or choke.

“God, I’m almost…”

Fandango, letting his eyes flutter closed, snapped them open when he heard Tyler’s mutter of, “Shit.”

He tried to back away for a moment, to ask what was wrong, but Tyler held tight to the back of his head. Tyler looked down at him; his eyes were a consumptive dark, and his loose hair made a curtain in front of his face. “Stay cool, I can handle this.”

Fandango rocked his head obediently, cheeks hollowed and gaze trained on Tyler’s face.

Looking back up, he assumed a calm expression, belied by his wide pupils and the red in his cheeks. “Is there a problem, sir?”

An unfamiliar, no-nonsense voice, coming from somewhere above and to Fandango’s back, said, “You have to leave.”

“Excuse me?” Tyler’s hand tightened in Fandango’s hair, stopping him in his tracks, and the strain reflected in his voice.

“You heard me. Tuck yourself into your pants, you sick fuck.”

Tyler let go of Fandango’s hair very suddenly, and put the hand on his cheek. ‘Listen to the man.’ Fandango let Tyler pop out of his mouth, and made a hurried attempt to cover him up. Tyler seemed to have the same idea at the same time. Their hands bumped against one another in an awkward panic to put his hard cock away and fasten his pants.

“We don’t even get a warning, just--?”

There was a thump on the table over Fandango’s head, and both of them jumped. “You can either walk out of here right now on your own feet, or we will haul your asses out of here. You’re lucky I don’t call the fucking cops for indecent exposure.”

Tyler had his jaw squared like he could put up more of a fight, but he slid out of the booth. Fandango crawled out from under the table and got to his feet, making a half-assed attempt to smooth down his hair, and took a last sip of his margarita. Looking over his shoulder, where Tyler was watching him quizzically (and the bouncer looked about to burst a blood vessel), Fandango grinned.

“Dude, how much did you pay for these? This tastes like dick.”

The bouncer grabbed the collar of his shirt and jerked him towards the door. Laughing, he hooked an arm around Tyler’s waist. Tyler was laughing too, hysterically. The hurried walk to the door was blurry, wordless and with more stumbling than he expected, the bouncer at their back. They were drunk equally from the heavy-handed use of tequila and the weird excitement of being together.

The cold air outside sobered him, and they stood to catch their breath for a second. People passed on either side of them to get into the club, the humid paradise of thumping muffled music at their backs. They were alone. They had been alone at first sight.

Fandango got the feeling that he needed a cigarette right then, even though he had never smoked.

Tyler tugged on the hem of his shirt and led him down the sidewalk. When Fandango cocked his head, he explained himself with a simple, “My car.”

“You can’t drive. You had at least two things of…” Fandango waved his hand vaguely. “Hell, I shouldn’t drive.”

“Oh god, don’t tell me you’re going to turn out to be boring, after all of that.”

Fandango steered him so that his back pressed into the wall of a tan prefab concrete building. He looked like a painting of an angel. Gritty yellow streetlight diminished that in no way.

“Tyler Breeze,” he murmured, “you haven’t even seen exciting yet.”

When he leaned in for the kiss, a pair of fingers pressed to his lips, stopping him cold. A moment of solid, ugly worry hit his gut like a stone, but when he checked Tyler’s face he only looked coy. Smug. Fandango kissed his fingertips.

“You’re trying to take me home with you, but I still can’t have a kiss?”

“I’ve been going to this place for years, and now they’ll never let me back in, because of you.” Tyler pulled a fake pout. “I’m still sore about it.”

“Are you kidding? They have to let you back in. You’re their biggest tipper.” Tyler moved his fingers, taking hold of Fandango’s chin and stroking his thumb along his lower lip. “Plus, imagine how much business they’ll lose when their royalty doesn’t show. They can’t ban their main attraction.”

He sighed, “You’re a dirty flatterer,” and before Fandango could say anything cute in response, kissed him like casting a spell. Pulling back a hair’s breadth, he added, “But you’re not wrong.”


End file.
